


lion, defanged

by busyyhead



Series: golden child, lion boy [2]
Category: Chronicles of Narnia (Movies), Chronicles of Narnia - C. S. Lewis
Genre: Bestiality, Book/Movie: The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe, M/M, No Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 23:54:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26417545
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/busyyhead/pseuds/busyyhead
Summary: Like a lion, defanged, he'll cling to whatever weapons he has left.
Relationships: Aslan/Peter Pevensie
Series: golden child, lion boy [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1919740
Kudos: 15





	lion, defanged

**Author's Note:**

> oh boy. i wrote all of this in a single day and i'm already working on a third part? this is a series now? i guess??

His father dies and they leave home and he doesn't cry when his mother sends them away, fourteen years old and not nearly as strong as he'd hoped.

When she kisses his forehead and when her eyes water, Peter has nothing to give in return but his word to keep her in his thoughts and to keep his siblings safe.

She'll cry all night for them, he knows. But before she starts, Peter boards the train, never once looking back.

*  
  


The house is unsettingly empty and quiet. It's cold in the corridors and Peter smells dust and mold, quietly wondering what the house is waiting for. It feels like it will fall apart any moment. Damp is creeping across the ceiling and chewing slowly at the drapes. The stairs creak under his feet when he breathes.

Mrs Macready's fists settle into the curve of her hips as she tells them not to play inside the house.

Lucy is bored before the first pot of tea approaches a boil.

*  
  


He doesn't always think of his father when he looks at Edmund, but when his brother yells at him, _you think you're dad, but you're not_ , Peter looks too quickly and sees his father in the corner of his eyes.

Edmund is eleven, hardly remembers their father before he left, but he grew up with the fine, dark features and dark eyes of a father he never knew anyway, and looking at him makes something in Peter ache, some deep, buried part of him.

(He wants to yell back, because his brother just aches for someone he can't even remember at all.)

The picture of his father, when Edmund is closer, in his mind, isn't as clear as before, but it's still there.

*  
  


Lucy runs into her room, crying, and it's only later that Peter find her, picks her up and cards his fingers through her hair and whispers that everything is alright before telling her stories about their father.

“You believe me,” she murmurs against his throat, and Peter feels himself nod, despite the look Susan gives him over their sister's head.

If Lucy notices what passes between them, she pretends not to.

*  
  


He's inside the wardrobe and being pelted with snow but somehow, forming the snowballs keeps his fingers from getting nipped in the cold. He watches his breath dissipate into the air as unfurling mist, and after he'd made Edmund apologize they leave with blue-tipped fingers and toes.

*  
  


There's something scraggly and wild about the forest that makes it feel larger. The trees grow so close together in places that their branches interweave, their trunks white and silvery and covered with patches of frost at the bases. There is only silence among them, a cold quiet nothingness. It isn't a large forest, but something about it feels ancient and undisturbed.

He shoves a branch upwards so they can walk under it and Susan catches his eyes. He hears Edmund follow him and without turning around he says,

“Lu?”

Lucy's slowed in her steps now, and Peter turns to look at the small dwelling her eyes are focused on. She runs down the sleet-slick slope towards it, calling _Tumnus_ , _Tumnus_ as she bursts through the open door in a flurry of snow and fear.

*  
  


The beavers tell them there is a war. Peter thinks there's _always_ a war, but he knows that's not true. If he tries, he can remember.

Outside the wind howls, a never ending blizzard, and they sit huddled together, waiting for it to pass.

When Susan says they should go and raises her voice at him, yells about _mum_ and _freezing_ and _thinking things through_ , he tries to argue as strongly as he is able to.

Except: cold tendrils worm their way into the burrow, and Peter shivers and tries to rub more warmth into his hands, still cold in his threadbare, holey gloves. He draws closer to the space Edmund occupied a moment previous, except it's not his brother but Lucy next to him, and the numbness he feels then has nothing to do with the frigid cold.

*  
  


Peter want to topple, to recklessly run into the palace where his brother is going.

He almost does. Almost.

 _This is all your fault_ , Susan yells at him, and Peter thinks, _I know_.

He doubts her anger could rival the one he has for himself now.

He's an idiot, he thinks, he's a stupid idiot. He can't lose Edmund. He didn't realize until now how much he can't lose Edmund too, like he lost his father, like he lost his mother... he can't, he can't, he can't...

(he doesn't know what he'll say to Edmund when they get him back. He's always been so quick to hurt, his brother, he always was.

 _I'm sorry I yelled at you_ , or _you remind me of father_ and _I hate it and I don't know why_.)

*  
  


The world here is all encompassed in white: the sky disappears, filled with it, and Peter can't tell anymore where the earth ends and the sky begins. He looks down at the frozen lake from the pass they're crossing, taking in the beauty of it. Looks out into the drifts of snow.

The beavers have already plowed their own path through the layers, and he and Susan and Lucy have to walk behind them, their boots sinking into the freshly fallen snow.

*  
  


He's never held a sword before, but his first instinct is to touch, to hold it in his hands.

It's beautiful. He's left in a sort of awe: cold and smooth and balanced perfectly, it feels like it is meant for his hands. He wraps his hand around the pommel, admiring the lion's golden head.

He has no idea how to hold it, but he finds he really, really wants to.

*  
  


They take shelter behind a boulder from the cold winds. The beavers build a small fire at their backs. Lucy is tucked under his arm, her tiny body small and cold as she shivers next to him. Peter can't help but feel as if there are eyes on him, stomach squirming.

He doesn't notice how quiet it has become until Susan speaks.

“If mum knew what we're doing...”

Her cheeks are red from the cold.

“Mum isn't here,” he says, angry and cold.

Sleep isn't kind to him, but is hasn't been since Edmund left.

*  
  


_What's it going to be, Son of Adam?_

He's gripping his sword even though he doesn't know how to use it, his grip made clumsy by the thick layers of fur and leather and Susan is shouting something at him. Lucy digs her hands into the mantle of his coat, crying Peter's name over Susan's panic and the churning ice.

_I won't wait forever, and neither will the river._

He plunges his sword into the ice and gathers Lucy close to his chest as the water gives way.

*  
  


He's coughing and coughing until he's sure he's hacking up his lungs all over the ice. He takes some huge gulps of air, but he can't seem to breathe. He thinks he's forgotten how, panic chocking his heart as he searches the bank, calling, _Lucy_ , _Lucy—_

“Has anyone seen my coat?”

Lucy's hands are void of any warmth when Peter grabs them, but all he feels is _warm_.

*  
  


He has never seen this particular shade of green, but of course there are many things he's never seen before, and things he will never see again. His mother and father, maybe Edmund, too.

His home in Finchley, his own bed.

Before his eyes, winter is fading, revealing a whole world waiting to be tasted and touched and discovered. New sprouts work their way through their beds of soil. The grass is so green it fills his vision with almost nothing but it. Wisteria clinging to the branches of the surrounding trees.

The beavers feet pad excitedly across the field and Lucy dips one of her feet into a stream, and she holds onto Peter's hand as they journey the last stretch of winter away.

*  
  


He's on his knees, thrust prostrate at Aslan's feet and trying to make excuses, _I was too hard on him, even when I shouldn't have been, it is my fault_ , and Susan's hand is on his shoulder.

 _We all were_ , she says, and Peter wishes he could believe her.

*  
  


There is a golden light climbing the edge of the hill, and Aslan stands at the top, shining like a god.

“I'm not who people think I am. I'm not that strong,” Peter says with more resolution and confidence, because it feels true. There's not enough _Narnian_ in his English body.

He's not a king, not a _hero_ , couldn't even keep his brother save.

Aslan is looking at him, something warm and ancient and smiling in his eyes that seems to mean he knows something Peter doesn't. His gaze reminds Peter of mountain tops and a forest full of magic.

Peter expected Aslan to be a wild thing.

“Don't doubt yourself, Son of Adam. You may be stronger than you think,” Aslan says, and maybe he just imagines the little roar of strength that races through his veins, but he still inflates his chest, just a little.

*  
  


He unsheathes his sword, and with it he kills the wolf.

His fingers shake clasped around the grip, the first time he's pulled his sword to kill.

The wolf lunges at him, claws at Peter's throat, and he just gets his sword up in time to impale the beast under its neck. The sword shines with blood as it pierces through the wolf's neck and when it falls heavy across him.

Lucy and Susan are yelling, but Peter can't hear them. Can only hear the fast beating of his own heart in his chest.

When they heave the wolf's heavy bulk off of him, it flops lifelessly on the ground at his feet.

Peter breathes, then stares at the corpse of the wolf he just killed, and weeps.

*  
  


Edmund is alive. He has a cut that reaches from his temple to his brow and his lip is badly split, but he's _alive_.

Lucy starts to cry when she sees him, and when Aslan nudges him forward she wraps her arms around him and Edmund hugs her back. Peter punches him in the arm and says _that's for running away_ , then punches him again and laughs when Edmund chokes out a weak _stop punching me I already told you I was sorry_.

He tries for something maybe like _I love you_ or _I'm sorry, too_ , but it won't come out right, and he thinks it's okay for the moment anyway, because Edmund seems to get the point either way, wrapping his arms around Peter in return.

  
*

He remembers him and Edmund in what might have been a world away now, both small boys playing with sticks for swords in their backyard, just playing...

It's such a stupid, naive thing to cling to.

“Don't you understand?” Susan says. “fighting could kill you! You could die!”

 _I'm not afraid_ , he says with every too-long look at them and every look at Aslan, already wearing his bravado like a crown.

 _I am not afraid, I'm not afraid, I'm not afraid_.

*  
  


The witch is beautiful, in her own cold way.

Everything goes so still, so quiet when she speaks, her silvery voice filling the camp. She smiles chillingly at Peter when he steps towards her.

“Do you really think you can deny me what is mine by right, _little king_?”

Aslan doesn't make any noticeable changes, but if a lion’s s expression, already wild if only by the sharp edge behind his eyes and the deadly jaws that glint with a hint of teeth as he speaks, could darken, it would.

*  
  


He realizes his mistake the moment he sets foot into Aslan's tent and the tent flap swishes close behind him.

The massive frame of him rises in fury, then comes down heavily on Peter's chest. He forces him onto his back, paws the size of plates crushing Peter's ribs, but he seems to have enough mind to retract his claws before pushing down.

Peter can feel the lion's breath coiled and hot and heavy against his face.

“I had released you before, Son of Adam. I believe I made that clear.”

It is then that Peter remembers, _realizes_ more like, that Aslan, as gentle and good as he is, isn't a tame lion.

A wild beast, just like the lion stitched on Peter's chest.

“You made a deal with her, didn’t you?” Peter says, not really managing to keep the anger out of his voice.

Aslan, who this whole time has been crouching over him, rises up and sits on his haunches, his golden eyes gazing down at Peter impassively now.

“Yes. We all have our own roles in this war, Peter. You as well as I.”

It's not enough, but one look at Aslan's face says it's all he's going to give Peter now.

*  
  


He shoulders his armor (he has to cinch the straps as far as they will go) and feels every part of a boy thrust in the middle of a war. He looks it, too, on the battlefield. His armor shines. It's never seen battle after all.

Oreius rides at his side, keeping an occasional eye on his king.

Peter fights cautiously.

If he's learned anything during his time here, it's that your scruples become your enemy's weapons. The witch is a bad woman, she's smiling while her frozen hands come to freeze Narnia, she will kill Lucy and Susan and Edmund, if Peter doesn't get up and kill her first, she's _hurt_ Edmund, if his brother speaks about it or not. He think that maybe it would be far less moral not to kill her.

*

Edmund is lying dead on the ground and Peter can feel the anger in his bloodstream, the brutal, violent desire for the witch's blood taking up residence in his head.

She disarms him too quickly. The pain in his arm doesn't register over the _angerhatredbloodlust_ pounding in his head. He snarls and growls and bucks against her, clinging to his anger, wishing he could rip her apart with his teeth alone.

(Like a lion, defanged, he'll cling to whatever weapons he has left.)

And then Aslan is pinning her to the ground, his teeth deep in the witch's neck, and everything else slows down for a moment.

*  
  


Susan's arrows never miss even when she tries. The witch's henchmen lays at her feet and stops breathing. Edmund is dead and Peters' fists are clenched, too tight, and right now his blood is seeping from all the cuts that tell him he wasn't fast enough.

*  
  


A drop from Lucy in his mouth brings Edmund back to the land of the living. His brother wakes to Peter's face pressed into his shoulder and a healed chest. Lucy and Susan are right beside him. Aslan's muzzle comes to rest on Peter's shoulder, urging.

*  
  


His journey is one of death. Bodies line his path, faces he might know. The battlefield is rooted with arrows.

Aslan, freshly revived, bloody and more lion than Peter has ever seen him, approaches him with something warm and proud in his golden eyes. His maw is red and sticky, as it had been when it was dripping thick ropes of blood.

Peter isn't scared of him, though. It's just the image that's burnt itself into his memory, and it's what he will think of when all of this is over.

*  
  


Aslan crowns him in the castle of Cair Paravel on the sea. The four govern as best as they can: Peter earns the respect and stripes he yearns for. He commands armies, conducting even the menial tasks demanded of a king. Edmund's spite and sharp words have been replaced with wisdom that is rare in a boy not quite twelve. He doesn't cover himself up anymore with biting remarks and half truths.

Susan is more beautiful and gentle but far away. Lucy is always shrieking with laughter and running through the castle with her animal friends. She's a smiling ball of energy, amidst the three of them.

She's also the one Aslan visits more often.

*  
  


Peter is dressed down to his pants and a simple tunic, his sword still hung across his hip. Golden, scruffy hair is starting to line his neck when he sees Aslan next.

 _He must be coming from seeing Lucy_ , Peter thinks, and he feels his chest heat up at that.

They are of a height now, but Peter is his youth may still grow. He lays his hand carefully atop the lion's back, saying, “It's been almost a year, Aslan. Where have you been?”

And there is that edge of anger again, but Aslan only gifts him with a warm chuckle.

“Peter, I cannot always be here when you want me,” he reproaches gently, as one would a petulant child.

“I just— “

“Yes, Peter?”

“I just want you to pay attention to me. More.”

Shame sets in immediately. Peter can feel it rising into his cheeks. It's not as if he weren't already getting more personal attention paid to him. And he isn’t Lucy.

If Aslan sees, he doesn't say so. He doesn't say anything really. He just lets Peter walk alongside him under the cliffs and tell him what he has done this past year, where he has gone, what he has seen.

They sit on the ground and watch the sun disappear behind the horizon when there's nothing more to say.

Aslan rumbles, soft, and Peter reaches out to pet him, feeling the short, sleek fur to the coarse, wild glory of his mane.

His hands are very warm.

Eventually, he curls up at the great lion's side, down Aslan's flank, along his belly, his fingers twined into Aslan's mane, who nuzzles at Peter's hairline, rumbling,

“Feeling better now?”

And what is he supposed to say to that?

He buries his face in Aslan's mane to hide the water in his eyes— he can keep this for just a little longer. He wants to feel like this for just a little while, wants to remember this even when Aslan is gone again.

He nods his answer, slow.

Aslan stays.


End file.
